Cooking, then eating, then clearing up. Buying, then wearing, then washing and folding and putting away. Listing, arranging, remembering. Making the body, presenting it, hating it, remaking it, presenting it, getting fucked, getting fucked. Cupping the soreness like a small red bird, wings beating hot and unhappy against the hand. Forgetting the hurt, wanting. Searching for yet another test. Skimming foam from a pot of boiling lentils, dripping salted sadness all over the floor. Threading the thick needle, dragging it through the heel of a worn-out sock, knotting. Peeling spotty potatoes until they gleam like polished tiles. Scraping rust from bones too young to creak this way. Talking down another friend from the cliffside. Scraping dried clay from the unmoving body. Throwing back the covers to face the sun like a parent. Scrubbing bloodstains that will never come out. Creating worlds one can stand to live in. Sitting in front of the lit oven, watching bread dough bubble over the rim of an oiled cast-iron. Punching it back down into a hard lump of clay, waiting til it rises again.